


Safety and Other Things

by buckysnowangel, sparkly_butthole



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A lot of comfort, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Frottage, M/M, Magical Realism, Mostly Serumed Steve Rogers Though, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips, Sappy, Steve and Bucky's First Vacation, Telepathy, We Still Live in 2014 Because Everyone Was Happy, a little hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckysnowangel/pseuds/buckysnowangel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/pseuds/sparkly_butthole
Summary: They say you know. It’s a little like drowning, a lot like falling in love in a heartbeat. Two, maybe, if you fight against inevitability. Either way, you just know.But if a serum-enhanced soldier can’t save his own fucking soul, his everything? If nothing can bring Bucky back from the dead? Then that kind of power doesn’t exist. Not in this universe. Not in the next.So no, Steve doesn’t believe in soulmates. But maybe it doesn't matter what you believe.Written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019!





	Safety and Other Things

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I just… really love soulmate fics, okay? They’re cheesy and silly and so romantic, I can’t stand it. So I saw the prompt and the art and just had to have it. And after the mess that was Endgame, a recovery Bucky fic hit just the right spot for me. 
> 
> So here it is, my reverse big bang for 2019! 
> 
> The artist is a frickin’ incredible creator and human being, and I’m so so so thankful to have met them! And thanks as always to the Glow Cloud (All Hail!) for the awesome beta work, and the rest of my Marvel fam for supporting me in my time(s) of need.

  


 

They say you know. In a rush of adrenaline and oxytocin, the spark that unites you overtakes everything and you simply forget that all else exists. It’s a little like drowning, a lot like falling in love in a heartbeat. Two, maybe, if you fight against inevitability. Either way, you just _know._

 

But soulmates are rare. Steve had learned about them in school, just like every other kid. Marc Antony and Cleopatra, lovers who chose to die together rather than risk losing each other. Keats and Brawne, too headstrong to be together and too stubborn to remain alone. And in the teacher’s lounge where he’d hang out after school some days, when his ma was at work, there’d been the whisper of Franklin and Washington. It’d been forbidden to speak of back then, same-sex pairings, but it’d happened on occasion, and the best teachers were honest about it with the most mature students.

 

Fanciful as his imagination is, Steve doesn’t believe any of it. A person doesn’t need a soulmate to make his mark on the world. No dame was ever going to look at him twice anyway, and besides that, if soulmates were real, he and Bucky would’ve sparked the first time they’d touched on the playground so long ago.

 

Nobody loves another person the way Steve loves Bucky. Real like Cleopatra, fiction like Romeo and Juliet… _Nobody_.

 

And Bucky’s just fallen into a ravine, never to return to the land of the living. He’s gone for good this time, and everything that Steve had used to define himself is deleted as though it’d never existed. He’d never gotten a chance to say how he felt, never shared his skepticism and stupid hope with the jerk, the one he’d failed when it’d really mattered. And if a serum-enhanced soldier can’t save his own fucking _soul_ , his _everything_? If nothing can bring Bucky back from the dead? Then that kind of power doesn’t exist. Not in this universe. Not in the next.

 

And nobody will ever know the truth: how he’d felt and still feels for his best friend, how he’d longed for those cold winter nights on the front where they would cuddle for warmth. All because they’d never sparked, never created some kind of ‘formal’ magic together. As if their prowess on the battlefield was mere coincidence and not the work of something greater than the sum of their parts. Bucky’s _gone_ , and all chance of that had come and gone with him.

 

So no, Steve doesn’t believe in soulmates.

 

***

 

There are so many reasons Steve hates waking up in the modern era. Losing Peggy and the Commandos to old age, losing Bucky to the ravine so long ago that nobody remembers him anymore except Steve himself. How nobody seems to appreciate the fact that he’d just had them, all of them, a mere few weeks ago. How nobody lets him grieve what he’s lost.

 

And then, later, that men don’t have to be soulmates in order to love other men. That he could’ve had Bucky right here by his side, the way they were always meant to be.

 

Oh, how it _burns_.

 

***

  
  


_Bucky_? he thinks. It’s nonsensical, of course; Bucky’s long gone. But it’s the first thing that comes to mind, and the first thing he hangs on to as he fights for his life.

 

They fight, he and the man in the mask, scrappy like old back alleys but three times as fast. The man comes at him; he dodges and grabs his shield. He tries to turn, tries to hide, tries to come up with some way to turn this fight around, when the bastard grabs his shoulder and the world tears asunder.

 

It’s like being inside a lightning storm, this jagged thing that rips them apart and tosses them to the side like trash. His eyes meet the Soldier’s; there’s nothing there, nobody home, but Steve sees the same shock and awe and wonder he feels anyway. He thinks: _This man hasn’t known wonder in a long time._ He thinks: _This man is locked in a cage against his will_ . He thinks: _Hydra will burn for this._

 

The fight continues, but it’s strange, like Alice falling into Wonderland. He sees a war, a dirty soldier, worn down and tired. The Soldier comes at him and he’s thrown into the present, but the eyes of the Soldier are the same.

 

He sees a ballroom, a woman in a red dress, eyes sparkling like moonlight and lipstick like blood. A man in a drab green trench coat behind her, trying to hide his pain, the betrayal so clear in his stance. Steve takes the woman by the arm, affection lighting him up from the inside, but the man knocks her aside, and suddenly they’re dancing, he and the man in green. The man in black.

 

He sees the grocery store on the corner, the automat across from it, the old tenement he used to call home. There’s a hand in his, strong, and Steve knows it’s his guide. Steve knows it’s his soulmate, and then they’re holding hands, here and now in the streets of D.C. The man in the mask pulls back, eyes wide and wild like he’d seen the same thing and been terrified.

 

And then the mask comes off, and _“Bucky_?” like his mind had known if only he’d listened to it.

 

***

 

“I’m losing it. I know I’m losing it,” he says, head in his hands, because he is absolutely _losing it._

 

“Why?” Natasha asks him curiously, always needing to know. Always needing to get in people’s heads, find out how they tick.

 

He doesn’t blame her; it’s how she was made.

 

She nods as though he’d answered out loud. “You sparked.”

 

“You knew?”

 

She lifts a perfectly manicured eyebrow like he’s an idiot, turning fully toward him on the couch. “Everybody in the district knew. It was kind of hard to miss.”

 

“That’s… impossible. It doesn’t work that way. Only the people who spark know… right?”

 

“... If that was true, how would people throughout history have told others? How would they believe them?”

 

“But it… the district? No, it shouldn’t have been that obvious.” He shakes his head, vainly attempting to clear away the confusion.

 

Nat just stares, umoving.

 

He tries another tack. “It was Bucky, though. And we didn’t… we never…”

 

“But you wanted to. You thought you should’ve,” she says, the epiphany written clear across her face.

 

Steve puts his head back in his hands. “How do you know everything?”

 

A small hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes before turning him so that his head is in her lap. “You’re like the world’s greatest tragedy, Steve. One I’ve read many times.”

 

Personally, he finds her story far more tragic, but it’s not like he’d ever say that out loud. Maybe she’s fooling herself and maybe not. Besides, it’s not like this is the Pain Olympics. They’re both messed up in their own way. Hell, they’re _all_ messed up. What other kind of person would decide to jump in front of an alien to save the world?

 

Only now, he has a soulmate. And his soulmate’s _Bucky_. And Bucky is… fucked-up and in danger, needing Steve desperately.

 

“Okay,” he tries, more to get the butterflies out of his stomach than anything, “but we should’ve sparked. On the playground when we were seven years old.”

 

Nat’s hand threads through his soft hair. She hums under her breath, like she does when she’s concentrating. Steve doesn’t think she realizes that she does it.

 

“Maybe he died,” she finally says.

 

“What, he’s a zombie?”

 

“No, you ass, maybe they brought him back. Mouth-to-mouth. Or something more sinister, some kind of technology.”

 

“So he’s a zombie,” he responds drily.

 

She slaps the crown of his head.

 

Steve groans. This is all so _confusing_.

 

***

 

Despite Natasha’s reassurances, Steve remains convinced that he’s lost it. There have been no more trance states, no more memories overlapping reality. Sure, he knows magic only works when you’re at your soulmate’s side, that you need each other more every passing day after you’ve sparked, but those things can be explained away easily enough. That wasn’t magic, just his body recognizing Bucky’s when his mind didn’t. And of course he feels drawn to Bucky, misses him like mad, because it’s _Bucky_. The hell else is he supposed to feel?

 

Then a greasy-haired man dressed in tattered blue jeans and a faded blue hoodie shows up on his doorstep one day, and his doubts fade in the blink of an eye.

 

Because like knows like.

 

Because it’s his _soulmate._

 

***

 

It’s not that easy. Of course it’s not that easy. Soulmates or not, best pals or not, Bucky is broken. Has been for… far longer than Steve cares to count. Far longer than they’d been friends.

 

Point is, Bucky’s skittish as hell. Like an adolescent colt, ready to bolt at the first sign of human hands, even soft ones that want nothing more than to be gentle with it. Perhaps afraid to be tamed again. And while Steve refuses to think of Bucky as an animal, well… that’s what he is. That’s what he’s been reduced to.

 

Bucky’d known when he first arrived at Steve’s house that he was Steve’s soulmate, even if he hadn’t remembered anything else about their lives together. God, it had hurt Steve to see that lack of recognition in his best friend’s eyes, but that was nothing compared to the pain he’d felt after Natasha had dug up his files. There’d been no doubt that the man was James Buchanan Barnes, former sergeant under Captain America himself, now known as the Winter Soldier.

 

He’d somehow managed to escape Hydra’s clutches, but he still doesn’t remember himself. Or Steve.

 

After one particularly difficult day, during which Bucky had screamed, thrown piece after piece of furniture at him, then disappeared into his room with a slam of the door, Steve calls Natasha in despair.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

 

“Just give him time, Steve.”

 

“How? He’s here in front of me, day after day. I try babying him and he hates it. I try tough love and he hates it. Nothing I do seems to be working.”

 

“You’re his soulmate. He’s drawn to you, and he always will be. And this isn’t permanent, I promise you. I don’t know how long it’ll take, or what you can do to help besides be there. But that I can promise you.”

 

Steve sighs, knowing he doesn’t want an answer to the question, but asking it anyway. “How can you be sure?”

 

“You know the answer to that,” she says gently, like he hadn’t just opened a can of worms. Like he hadn’t just hurt her. Seems like the kind of day where he should be destroying boxing bags instead of opening his mouth.

 

At a loss, bewildered, he repeats, “I don’t know what to do,” in a faint whisper.

 

“Give it time. Do your best. There’s nothing else he can ask of you. Or you of yourself.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, making an attempt to pull himself together. “I’ll figure it out. _We’ll_ figure it out. Together.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” Nat says cheerfully before hanging up on him.

 

He doesn’t take it personally.

 

***

 

Shit starts getting weird after that.

 

He should’ve expected it, really. The world’s best minds had never been - and still aren’t - sure how it works, but every bonded couple creates magic of their own. There’s no guessing how it’ll manifest, but it happens whether the pair wants it to or not. Steve finds it likely that they’ll have to rein it in and try to channel it somehow soon, or else they’ll never have control over what they can do. Hell, it might even be dangerous to be around them, like they aren’t already walking disasters.

 

Then, later, will come the sexual attraction. He’s not ready to start thinking about that, though. In all his adolescent - or even adult - fantasies, it had never occurred to him to imagine that part of it. Not with Bucky, not with _them_. As things stand, it’s too much, too overwhelming to contemplate just yet.

 

He thinks: _I can feel him coursing through my veins_ . He thinks: _How did I not know how much I wanted him?_

 

He thinks: _Cart before the horse much?_

 

At any rate, shit gets weird. That is an indisputable, and somewhat terrifying, fact.

 

At first, objects throughout the house start floating. Steve doesn’t think he’s doing it, but Bucky clearly isn’t either, at least not consciously. It’s not tied to any particular behavior on either of their parts, not as far as he can tell.

 

Steve tries talking to Bucky, tries to make him see reason. Tries to tell him that they have to get this under control before somebody gets hurt. And while it’s true that Bucky’s attitude has gotten better, that he’s accepted Steve’s help and accepted him as his soulmate, even has good days where he’s more like a person than an animal or an object, he’s still an obstinate fucker. That’s how Steve knows the core of him is still in there.

 

But it’s not until the day Steve finds himself flying unsteadily through the living room that he decides enough is enough.

 

***

 

The conversation is... not great, but it’s far from the worst they’ve had. Bucky thinks he’s responsible, but he doesn’t know how or why. He can’t control it, doesn’t understand how the ability is now affecting Steve. He’s scared of it, too, of what it might mean.

 

More to the point, he’s scared it means that he has to shape up and get his shit together. Because he’s not ready.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says gently, soothingly, afraid to spook his former best friend/assassin/soulmate. He moves a step closer anyway, sick of having the conversation from across the room, and drawn, as always, like a magnet. True north or some shit, whatever people say. “You’re never going to feel ready. Reintegrating into society after what we’ve been through… after what _you’ve_ been through…”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes as Steve sits next to him on their beat-up green eyesore of a couch. Stark keeps begging them to move to the new facility upstate, but they came from humble beginnings and they’ll stay there as long as they need to. Bucky even lets Steve take his metal hand and hold it in those giant paws, watches as slender fingers stroke the faux skin.

 

Steve continues cautiously. “I know, I can’t compare what you’ve been through to me. It’s not fair. But that only drives my point home more. If I never felt ready, you won’t, either. You just have to… I dunno, take a leap of faith somewhere.” He shrugs helplessly.

 

 _Steve_ , Bucky’s voice says in his mind, causing him to jump a foot in the air, _I already took one coming here. You think that wasn’t terrifying enough? Jesus, give me time._

 

Steve stares at him for several moments, struck speechless. It’s Bucky’s turn to shrug and look away, embarrassed.

 

“How long have you been able to do that?” Steve finally asks.

 

“Dunno. I hear your thoughts on occasion, too. I know you beat yourself up. Over your team and their failures. Over… just about everything about me. I’d tell you you don’t need to, but something tells me you wouldn’t listen anyway.” Bucky mentally snorts, making Steve chuckle.

 

“We should see what we can do together. I bet it’ll be beautiful,” Steve says softly, squeezing Bucky’s hand tighter just to feel the contact. Like he can soak into the man’s skin.

 

He thinks: _Let me._

 

He thinks: _Let_ **_us._ **

 

He thinks: _Why not see what we can become?_

 

Bucky scrutinizes him like he’s just heard Steve’s thoughts. Incredibly, he squeezes Steve’s hand in return before letting go and moving away.

 

“Because I don’t remember what we were before. How can we become something else if I don’t remember what we’re moving on _from_?”

 

He doesn’t slam the door, just gently closes it, but he doesn’t need to. It’s a dismissal if Steve’s ever seen one.

 

And things were going so well, too.

  


***

 

Steve’s a firm believer that time heals all wounds, as cliche as that sounds. Seems like it had for him, anyway. Maybe he’s an idiot, and maybe Bucky’s different. But Steve is stubborn in his beliefs if nothing else. Even his amnesiac best friend-slash-soulmate knows that.

 

Bucky starts coming to him, asking to practice. _Practice what_? Steve thinks, but he’s on board with whatever it is. The good days are coming more often than not. Every day when Bucky leaves his room and comes to lean on Steve is a gift. ‘Sessions’ are just icing on the cake.

 

“Try it again. No, not like tha- _Shit!_ ”

 

Bucky laughs when the shield bonks Steve on the head. There’s a curse word and a half-hearted glare in there somewhere, but this is honestly the most fun Steve’s had in three-quarters of a century.

 

“I’m not letting you practice on me yet,” he warns Bucky, whose eyes are dancing with the same mischief that got them into so much trouble when they were kids. Bucky would always insist that Steve was the troublemaker, but that had been categorically untrue.

 

Mostly.

 

“You’re heavier,” Bucky reasons, because he’s full of shit. “I probably can’t fling you across the room like that.”

 

Steve warns him with his stern Captain America look, the one that stands for freedom and justice and all that horseshit. Those words don’t mean much to him anymore. He’s more of a freelancer these days. A rebel hiding the world’s most wanted criminal, and fuck if he cares.

 

Bucky’s face softens, because the bastard can read Steve like a book… or maybe not. Maybe…

 

 _BUCKY, CAN YOU HEAR ME_? he sends, a big neon sign in his mind for Bucky to hone in on.

 

Bucky’s eyes widen to a comical extent. _Yes_ , he sends back, clear as his inner voice has been since day one. _Jesus, you’re loud. Have you always been so loud?_

 

Steve gives him an incredulous look, because _duh. Don’t tell me you’re surprised,_ he thinks, dry like a bone in the desert, because really, Buck should know better.

 

_Can you keep it to yourself?_

 

Steve shrugs and tries. Now that he knows how to send his thoughts, it’s difficult not to. He tries, though. He thinks: _I want you_ . He thinks: _God, you don’t know just how much. More every day._

 

He thinks: _You are_ **_everything_ ** _._

 

“Well, you partially succeeded,” Bucky tells him out loud, tone oddly flat, dancing on the edge between apprehension and amusement… which wasn’t an edge Steve knew existed, but here they are. “I don’t know if it’s your damn goofy expressions, but that last one came through loud and clear, pal.”

 

The blood rushes to Steve’s face, hot like fire flooding his veins. He looks away and stares pointedly at the wall, trying to come up with something to say. It’s not like Bucky doesn’t know it, but the force behind it in his own mind? Well past devotion. Bordering on obsession, maybe.

 

 _You don’t have to be embarrassed_ , Bucky says in his head. _I’m ancient beyond my years, broken like a forgotten child’s toy, seen everything…  have you ever heard of kintsugi?_

 

“The Japanese thing?” Steve asks, clearing his throat, still not able to face Bucky after that subtle-as-a-meteor declaration.

 

“Look at me, Rogers,” Bucky says in a no-nonsense tone Steve hasn’t heard since 1939, back when he was healing and cranky because his best friend wouldn’t let him out of bed. And just like then, he can’t help but obey.

 

“You’ve saved me from utter ruin twice now. But you were my soulmate well before that. _Well_ before. Since grade school, you fucking mook.”

 

Steve just… stares.

 

“Think I didn’t feel it, too?” Bucky asks him, softer now. “I just needed to… die first, I guess.”

 

“Don’t joke about that,” Steve replies automatically, but he’s still in shock. Bucky had felt the same. Bucky had felt the _same._ How did he not notice? Was he that far up his own ass?

 

Bucky throws back his head and laughs. “You need some _serious_ practice blocking off your thoughts.”

 

“Will you shut up and kiss me?” Steve asks, tries to _say_ , really, except that it comes out a little plaintive and a little desperate.

 

Bucky licks his lips, the tease. _Why don’t you make me?_

 

Steve growls and jumps him.

 

It’s probably the best afternoon of Steve’s life.

  


***

 

Steve had begged off the last few Avengers missions, wanting to stay with Bucky like some kind of puppy-eyed barnacle, or some other freakshow oddity.

 

_Do barnacles have eyes?_

 

A sense of exasperation comes through their bond, Bucky mentally rolling his eyes. Empathy has developed between them, too, making it even harder to hide his thoughts from his best friend. _Are you going to read the mission briefing or not? Do I need to come read it to you_?

 

 _Fuck you_ , Steve responds from fifteen thousand vertical feet and two states away. There’s no venom in it, though.

 

For this mission, they’d needed his tactical expertise. Dr. Doom has an absurd sense of the dramatic, having built an underground labyrinth with toys and twisted creatures just like the ones from the movie… _Labyrinth_. He’s even dressed himself up as David Bowie and set up camp at the heart of it. Steve’d always thought the man intelligent, maybe even brilliant, given the complexity of his toys, but this… this is utter insanity.

 

Alone, this isn’t worth their time and attention, but the mad scientist has been capturing local babies from nurseries and unattended shopping carts and making their parents run through the maze to find them. Who fucking _does_ that?

 

“Kinda redefines ‘lost it,’” Nat says before turning a speculative gaze in Steve’s direction. “Maybe gives you some perspective.”

 

“Right, because my best friend back from the dead and working for Hydra isn’t insane at all.”

 

“I see you’ve been learning the fine art of sarcasm from a certain Tin Man.”

 

“Hey!” Stark yells from the front of the jet. “I resent that!”

 

“The sarcasm part or the Tin Man?” Steve asks, drawing an amused raise of Nat’s eyebrow.

 

He doesn’t need telepathy or empathy to feel Tony’s eyeroll. “Obviously the Tin Man. I will have you know I won an award for Sarcastic Asshole of the Year. Several years in a row. And Widow, I’d appreciate you giving my genius its due, thank-you-very-much.”

 

“Hand over your awards. Whiny Kindergarteners aren’t allowed to play with trophies,” Steve says, deadpan.

 

 _Good one_ , Bucky says in his head, making Steve drop his head in his hands. Will he ever be able to hide his thoughts? _Show them the asshole I know and love_.

 

He jerks his head up. It’s no surprise at this point, but: _You mean that_?

 

_You’re such a moron. You fucking know I do._

 

_Say it, though. Like you mean it._

 

Another mental eyeroll, but the words are sincere. _I love you, Steve. Now come home safe._

 

Natasha’s giving him a look like a cat that got the cream. Or more like a lioness than a cat. Is he really that obvious to _literally everyone around him?_

 

 _Is that a surprise?_ Bucky mocks him, repeating what Steve had said not that long ago.

 

 _Shut up, Barnes._ And: _I love you, too._

 

***

 

The Labyrinth is not at all like the movie had promised Steve. The mission does _not_ go well. He does not stay safe, much to Bucky’s horror. There are exploding traps, fire-breathing whatsits, even modern-day weapons of convenience such as searing lasers. Apprehending the man behind this madness becomes less of a concern than saving their own asses.

 

It looks like they’re going to make it out alive, if not unharmed, until, in their final chase of the good doctor, Steve loses focus. It’s just for a brief second, but it’s enough for him to miss the flying boulder trap around the next bend. The timing is perfect; it’d have to be, or else he could’ve dodged it with his lightning-quick reflexes, attention deficit or otherwise.

 

He’s struck down, losing consciousness as his teammates yell his name, all drowned out by the voice in his head.

 

_STEVE!_

 

***

  


It’s a solid three days before Steve wakes up from the coma. His skull had been fractured in three places, and shards of bone had pierced parts of his brain. The surgeons hadn’t been sure he’d survive, even with his healing factor, but he’d stabilized early the next morning and been steady ever sense. Bucky’d drawn a knife on the medical staff when they tried to make him leave. He’d felt the shards go into his brain, too, had nearly lost consciousness right along with his soulmate. Kind of wished he had, because the panic of not getting anything - no emotion, no words, nothing at all - from Steve’s brain had driven him to his own kind of madness.

 

He’s overwhelmed with joy when Steve’s pure blue eyes land on him; he jumps up from his perch on the windowsill and is at Steve’s bedside in an instant. The joy fades quickly, though, when Steve flinches away from him.

 

 _Steve_? Bucky sends, tendrils of horror creeping into his internal voice. In return, he receives nothing but a strange flatness, and no sense of recognition whatsoever.

 

“Who the hell is Steve?” his soulmate croaks, and that’s when Bucky knows in his bones - they’re in deep shit.

 

***

 

They send Steve home with him. Or rather, Steve decides to get out of bed and find home on his own while Bucky’s busy getting coffee and staring at the drab grey cafeteria wall, wallowing in his own misery. He gets a flash of anger and confusion, then desperation as Steve bolts from the hospital, subduing his pursuers in his desire to get the hell out. Then relief and… amusement?

 

Bucky thinks: _What an asshole_.

 

It’d be amusing to _him_ if it wasn’t also so dead fucking serious.

 

With a sigh, he gets out of the chair, leaving his sad coffee on the bench. He spares a moment to mentally apologize to Clint for leaving a coffee with no one to attend to it, then runs and runs and runs, chasing his Steve-sense across town, only slowing down when it becomes obvious that Steve is heading for home.

 

The guy doesn’t remember his own soulmate, but he remembers where home is. The home he’s only resided in for a year.

 

Bucky thinks: _What an_ **_asshole_ ** **.**

 

He idly wonders what the hell kind of amnesia allows that to happen, but it’s not exactly important considering it _is_ happening. Steve’s always been the one to concern himself with questions like that; back in the day, he’d spend hours debating philosophy with himself while Bucky just listened to him prattle on - and where the hell did that come from? Is his mind making shit up, or was that a real memory?

 

Important, but not important enough right now. The thing is, Bucky’s all about the practical stuff. Like how the hell he’s gonna make it through the day. Less of that particular question these days, of course, thanks to Steve, but still. It’s good to be practical.

 

Something of his gratitude must flow through the bond because he can feel Steve blink, turn around in confusion, and stare at the door. He’s not ‘all there’, though, Bucky knows that much, so he approaches the house wearing caution like a cloak. Because Steve isn’t gonna realize how much the bond would fuck him over until he’d already hurt Bucky. And Steve is one of the only people who is very, _very_ capable of hurting Bucky.

 

He opens the door slowly, ever-so-slowly, wincing at the creak it makes even after several failed attempts at fixing it. Steve is on the other side, in that in-between space where the foyer meets the living room, staring wild-eyed and ready to run again. Bucky can tell that Steve knows he’s not supposed to harm him, which is a fucking relief and a half because fighting this asshole when said asshole doesn’t even know who Bucky is might be…

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

The sudden rush of his epiphany strikes Steve square in the chest, kind of like a stake Bucky didn’t quite mean to throw. Not as hard as he had, anyway. He’s normally better at keeping that shit under wraps. Sharing thoughts and feelings has become more natural, that’s the thing, because the bad days are fewer and further between, and Bucky actually trusts Steve. More and more every day.

 

Wants him, even, though that isn’t something they discuss. Two guys from the ‘30s… yeah, not ready for that conversation just yet.

 

But no one could have foreseen this.

 

 _Who the hell is Steve_?

 

 _Fuck_ , it makes him nauseous.

 

He doesn’t approach the frightened man standing in the middle of their shared space, looking lost even though he’d known it was his own damn house. Instead, Bucky tries to project calm and assurance.

 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, low.

 

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Steve responds, frustration evident along the bond and in his voice.

 

“Because this is our home, Steve.”

 

Steve scoffs, as unimpressed as Bucky’d been the first time he’d seen Steve attempt to throw a punch. “ _Our_ home… Please. You don’t think I’m that much of an idiot, do you? This is _my_ home.”

 

Steve is filled with so much confidence it takes Bucky aback.

 

 _How do you not know who I am, what we are?_ he sends, hoping actual words get through to Steve’s brainpan, instead of through one ear and out the other.

 

 _How are you in my head?_ Steve asks, bewildered.

 

 _Because I’m your soulmate._ He tries to project that same calm, but unlike his outer voice, he can’t hide the tremor of fear like this.

 

“Soulmates aren’t… they’re not real. They were never… It was a lie. A pretty lie they told us.”

 

Curious despite himself, Bucky approaches another step. Steve watches him with apprehension, mouth drawn down and nostrils flaring, but doesn’t move. “Why would you think that?”

 

“Wasn’t it obvious? Me and Bucky… If not us, then who?”

 

Incredulity fills every space in Bucky’s body, threatening to spill over. This time, Steve does take a step back. “You do know that I’m Bucky, right? Do you _see_ me?”

 

“You look like him. A little,” Steve hedges. “Longer hair. Lines on your face. I mean, I would probably fuck you if it came down to it.” Bucky’s eyes climb to his hairline; apparently, a head injury can cause some serious inhibition reduction, because Steve wouldn’t say that in a million years. Even if they were fucking, and not even in his head. “But you’re not him,” Steve continues, oblivious to Bucky’s internal struggle. “He died. Though I don’t... I don’t remember when. I just remember… falling. Only it was more like drowning somehow.”

 

Steve’s obvious pain and growing anxiety make Bucky’s heart clench. If Steve’s had to put up with half this shit during the process of pulling Bucky’s head out of his ass, he deserves sainthood. _Here lies Saint Steven, beholden to and victim of one James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, the craziest fucker to have ever crazied._ Because Bucky had been crazier than this shit, and boy, if the guilt doesn’t hit him like a cement truck.

 

Steve squints like he’s looking at the sun, trying to parse some puzzle he’s just on the verge of understanding. “You’re lying to me.”

 

“Am I?” That’s news to him.

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

The deep lines between Steve’s brows grow impossibly deep; Bucky wants to kiss them away. Memory transfer doesn’t work, at least not for them - they’ve tried it, hell, they’ve tried it again and again - but Bucky makes an attempt anyway.

 

“Why are you _lying_ to me?” Steve asks, more bewildered than angry.

 

“I’m not,” Bucky says, blowing out a slow, frustrated breath. Fuck, but this is tiring. It’s been two days of Steve’s suspicious side-eye at the hospital, during which neither of them had slept much, and now this. “How do I convince you?”

 

Steve throws up his hands. “I dunno! How the hell would I know? According to you, I don’t even know my own name.”

 

“Do you want to try a nap? It’s been a long few days, right?”

 

Steve thinks about it, looks like he’s going to turn down the offer, but then yawns, showing off the deep cavern of his mouth.

 

“That’s a yes, then,” Bucky says, all the cool, hard logic of a parent talking to a reluctant toddler. “Let me lay you down. I’ll leave you alone after. Promise.” It’ll be hard not to climb into bed next to his soulmate, but this is the best he’s going to get out of Steve for now. Doesn’t need to be told, because like this, Steve has even less control of his emotional projection than normal; Bucky can quite clearly feel the chaos in his soulmate’s mind.

 

“Okay,” Steve acquiesces. “I’ll trust you to do that. You haven’t hurt me yet.”

 

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. At least there’s that.

 

***

 

Bucky’s relief is short-lived. He’d thought they were making progress the day before; Steve had slept a full eight hours and had woken up more refreshed than normal. Bucky can usually sense when Steve’s had a nightmare or twelve, and he’d gotten nothing from Steve’s internal voice all night. And it _had_ been all night, given the fact that he’d barely slept himself, uncomfortable and bunched up on the couch.

 

It’s like he’s back in the ‘30s, watching over his sick best friend while he chews his nails down to the quick with worry.

 

Now _this_ is annoying. Why is it that he’s getting flashes of memory when Steve is like this? Bucky wants to share, to ask, to delight in it, and Steve is…

 

Steve is angrily staring at him from the end of the hallway.

 

Bucky’s hindbrain goes on full red alert: all systems ready, because an angry, amnesiac Steve Rogers is fucking dangerous as shit, at _least_ as dangerous as the Winter Soldier.

 

“Steve,” he murmurs, “it’s me. Your best friend.”

 

 _Fuck you_.

 

Bewildered, Bucky sends back _Why? The hell’d I do?_

 

“I don’t know who you are,” - _yes, I do_ \- “pretending to be my dead fucking best friend,” - _tricking me, tricking like some fucking_ **_asshole_ ** \- “but you need to leave. Get out of my _head!” And stay gone._

 

“Stevie, sweetheart,” Bucky tries, flinching with Steve when the old nickname slides out of his mouth like word vomit, “I _am_ Bucky. How do I show you?”

 

_You should’ve stayed dead then._

 

A gust of air escapes him, pain filling the spaces between his cells. He tries, _tries_ to focus on Steve’s problem. This isn’t about him. He knows that Steve doesn’t mean it. That Steve isn’t himself.

 

He thinks: _Try telling that to the voice in the back of my head. Voi_ **_ces_ ** _._

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

 _This is all your fault,_ he gets, while Steve just stares at him with murder in his eyes. _You cost me a real life._

 

 _This isn’t like you_ , Bucky sends back. _This isn’t who you are. You don’t mean it. Please, Steve, try to remember that._

 

_I loved him. You. Should’ve stayed dead. Now you’re ruining my life._

 

It’s like a shot to the heart, not a through-and-through where the serum might close the hole before he drops dead - or where he does drop dead, quickly and painlessly - more like a bullet lodging itself and hanging there where it might cause the worst kind of agony. But the most horrific part of all this is that Bucky isn’t sure how much of this is healing-Steve, the confused version who doesn’t know what the hell is actually going on, or real-Steve, saying what he’s wanted to say all along. Bucky had only been half-joking when he’d nicknamed him a saint.

 

 _I’d_ **_be_ ** _a saint if it wasn’t for you_ , Steve sends him viciously, _but now I’m a liability. A danger._

 

Bucky hopes against hope that that isn’t an answer to his question, but it’s a fading hope, and he’s unraveling just as quickly as his best friend.

 

 _So sad for you,_ Steve thinks mockingly. _Whatever will you do now? It better be getting out of my fucking head_.

 

Bucky thinks, to himself or to Steve, he’s not sure: _Close your eyes._

 

He thinks: _Take a breath._

 

He thinks: _To the end of the line._

 

Steve’s eyes widen in shock. “How do you know that phrase?” he asks, voice shaky like the earth is moving under his feet.

 

“Haven’t we been over this?” Bucky asks tiredly.

 

“Are you? Am I… “ he trails off. _Where am I? I’m Steve, I remember. Steve Rogers. But where...?_ Then his eyes hone in on Bucky, sniper’s eyes, lasers, the reflection of the Soldier written there plain as day. Bucky shudders. It’s an apt comparison, thought process and all.

 

Steve takes a full, deep breath, squares his jaw, still staring at Bucky, a hawk watching a field mouse, and says, “I hate you.”

 

Swallowing tears, Bucky sends: _Then leave._

 

Then his soulmate stalks out the front door, slamming it on the way.

 

Bucky hasn’t cried like this since he was tortured.

  


***

  


It takes the Avengers an entire week to track him down, in part because Steve’s good at hiding from technology when he wants to stop pretending he’s a grumpy grandpa, and in part because his own soulmate won’t help them. At least not until he gets a call from an old friend.

 

Bucky doesn’t want to answer it, of course. He knows it isn’t Steve because he can sense Steve, enough to at least glean this much knowledge. So someone else wants to talk to him, but it’s _about_ Steve, because outside of his status as Captain America’s soulmate, Bucky has no interesting attributes besides being wanted for murder.

 

He thinks: _Do I deserve this?_ He thinks: _What ‘this’ am I even referring to?_

 

He thinks, uncharitably: _Put me back in the ice_.

 

Yeah, that’s a step too far. So sue him.

 

Objectively, Bucky knows that Steve deserves better than this. A soulmate who’s better than James Buchanan Forever-FUBAR-Barnes. He’s an egg left on a hot sidewalk too long, a piece of bread repeatedly stretched to the breaking point by a butter knife. Not right in the head. A cold-blooded killer, when you boil it down to the basics.

 

But it is what it is, and Steve’s stuck with him, so Bucky answers the goddamn phone. It’s the least he can do.

 

“Barnes-Rogers residence, how may I help you?”

 

“My, such attitude,” says a woman’s scratchy voice. She speaks with a British accent, ancient and somehow familiar. “I think you’d be better off calling it the ‘Rogers-Barnes residence,’ personally, but I’m not here to judge. Or rather, I am, but that’s not why.”

 

“I know you,” he says. “I hated you, I think.”

 

The voice softens, much to his astonishment. “I know you did. And I know why you did, too.”

 

“Oh?” he asks, feeling a wave of bitterness rising in him. “Well, I don’t.”

 

“Of course you don’t. Stark really messed up with that program. For such a genius, he could be a real fool at times. Should’ve known he couldn’t match Erskine.”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

 

“Not important. He paid for it in the end, the rat bastard. I just wish you hadn’t been collateral. Wish I’d known. I would’ve stopped him, you know, if I had.”

 

“... Still not following, lady.”

 

“Peggy. Peggy Carter.”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes as though he’d be able to see the memories, if only he could squint hard enough. “You know none of this is gettin’ through, and I’m gettin’ a headache.”

 

The phone sighs, sounding old. He glares at it like it’s personally offended him.

 

“Right, well. From what the nurses have told me, I don’t have much time anyway, so I’ll say it plainly. You are all Steve Rogers has left. My time with him came to an end long ago, and yours is just starting. Why are you wasting it? He’s too good a man for you to do that to him.”

 

“Not like I can do anything else,” he replies with gritted teeth.

 

“So it’s about choice, then? Yet another thing taken from you?”

 

He doesn’t respond to that; it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain.

 

“You’re a fool, too. Always knew you were.” She’s upset with him - now and still - but there’s a strange sort of affection in her voice, too. “Two peas in a pod, I swear it. James, go and get him. This isn’t yet another thing taken from you; it’s something you’re getting _back_. Something precious that should have never been stolen from you in the first place.”

 

The raw emotion transfers to him like a knife wound; briefly, he wonders whether a person can have more than one soulmate. The effect her words have on Bucky draws a response from Steve, halfway across the country by now, alarm deep in his gut. Bucky can sense his neurons re-forming themselves, Steve’s healing factor fixing whatever had been broken by the head trauma.

 

But while Bucky doesn’t remember much of their lives before, he knows enough of their lives now to realize that Steve won’t come crawling back once he realizes what he’s done. He’ll crawl _away_ in shame until someone digs him out. Too self-sacrificing by half, but that’d never been his big problem. Steve had - or so Bucky’d been told - faced down a tank with nothing but his big body and brass balls, and Bucky believes it. Sure as the sun rises, Steve will stand in front of a tank if he thinks it’s the right thing to do, and then he’ll come back for more until he’s made his point.

 

Hurting his friends, though, that’s his weak spot. He’d rather hurt himself. And when it comes to Bucky, Steve’s like a chasm filled with pain on a good day.

 

Bucky thinks: _I’ll have to be the one to fix this._

 

He thinks, resigned: _I guess it’s character growth._

 

Something must change in the quality of the silence, that or this multiple-soulmate idea has some merit, because Madame Carter makes a satisfied noise.

 

“Are all you women clairvoyant or something?” he asks in bewilderment.

 

“Just smarter than you,” she says primly, causing a lump of affection to form behind his breastbone.

 

“I hate you,” he says amicably.

 

“I know, darling. I know.”

  


***

  


Bucky finds him in a field in Nebraska. Corn for miles, green acres of it in a midday sun that belongs on a concrete Brooklyn sidewalk more than the Midwest. Bucky’s uncomfortably sweaty after following his Steve-sense for so long; seems like the guy found the farthest spot from civilization and set up camp. Only not literally, because he’s just… sitting there.

 

 _Steve_? Bucky tentatively sends.

 

A mountain of regret greets him, a Pandora’s box of angst with his name carved into it, then hadn’t let Steve in on the secret and gleefully given it to him. Bucky actually shields his face and steps back, away from the mental onslaught he couldn’t outrun or hide from at the ends of the Earth. This only serves to distress Steve further, leading to a weird feedback loop that results in Bucky barely hanging onto his hard-fought sanity.

 

 _STEVE, STOP!_ he yells in a last-ditch effort to _calm him the fuck down_.

 

It gets through - enough that the pure emotion rolling off Steve becomes bearable, at least. Bucky grits his teeth and cautiously approaches his soulmate, bracing for another wave of pain. But Steve just locks eyes with him, wearing a pinched look like he’s trying his damndest to hold it in.

 

Before he can speak, internally or otherwise, Steve says, “Is everyone else here?”

 

“They were worried about you.”

 

“But you knew I was fine.”

 

Reasonable, but, “They’d rather see that for themselves. I think you know how that goes. You’re also not great at changing the subject.”

 

Steve takes a deep breath and then releases it. With his lung capacity, it takes long enough for Bucky to get a little prickly with anticipation.

 

“Why is it so hard for you to forgive yourself?” he asks, voice barely a murmur, as he sits on the ground next to Steve, who looks away and tenses so hard it has to hurt.

 

“Steve. Look at me.”

 

_I didn’t mean it._

 

 _I know,_ Bucky soothes, and snags Steve’s surprisingly delicate hand in his metal one.

 

_Stages of grief. When you came back… and then I remembered it all, and… I was trying to prove to myself that I didn’t need you any longer._

 

“You’d built yourself a life. I threw a wrench into it. You were processing. I get it.”

 

Steve looks at him then, guileless eyes like the endless sky. “You’re more understanding than I deserve.”

 

“I don’t know what you think went through my head when I was remembering you, but it sure as shit wasn’t pretty, either.”

 

“Still too good to me.”

 

“I always was. Don’t you remember being a pain in my keister every time you were sick?”

 

“Oh _no_ , don’t you dare go there. I was _sick._ Totally different deal,” Steve groans.

 

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky replies with a small smile. “Willing to put up with a lot for the person I love. Just like you.”

 

Steve understands that better than anyone, and doesn’t try to deny it.

 

***

 

It’s not a magic fix.The Avengers are mad at both of them, which is beyond fucking fair as far as Bucky’s concerned. Steve had been healing a head wound that would’ve killed anyone else, but Bucky had just… moped.

 

And Steve is more tentative than Bucky’s ever seen him. They decline the team’s offer of a ride, deciding to relax together for a few days, and head to a hotel that turns out to have only rooms with two beds left. Steve’s eyes ask for Bucky’s permission when he lies down next to him. Bucky is reminded of a German Shepherd who’d gotten into the cat’s litter box and still feels guilty hours later.

 

Steve has one eyebrow raised.

 

“What?”

 

“That’s an odd comparison to make.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes as Steve snuggles close, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. “Fine. Golden Retriever then.”

 

“Thanks, pal. Much better,” Steve responds drily.

 

“You’re welcome, buddy.”

 

They’re silent for a while. Steve’s guilt is still loud and clear in Bucky’s mind, but he’s processing it quicker than Bucky would’ve guessed him capable of on his own.

 

_We’re like each others’, what are they called, anti-inflammatory cells._

 

_???_

 

_Like we make scabs. We heal each other._

 

“And here I thought the dog thing was weird.”

 

Bucky shrugs. Both seem apt enough for him.

 

“Thank you,” Steve says after a few minutes. Bucky’s half-asleep, even with Steve’s body heat in this humid hotel room with its ancient, scratchy blankets. Goddamn Nebraska.

 

“For what?” Bucky asks sleepily.

 

“Forgiving me.”

 

“That goes both ways, you know. We forgive each other; it’s what we do.”

 

_I know. But thank you anyway._

 

_I love you, Steve. Now go to sleep._

  


***

  


They ditch the Avengers by unspoken agreement and snatch a rental car for their first official road trip. Steve turns off his phone entirely - he’s driving anyway - but Bucky grins at his every time it buzzes. Steve disapproves, of course, but why should Bucky care? He’s got his soulmate back and he’s in a good goddamn mood for once, ready for something approximating fun. It’s the youngest he’s felt since he shipped off to war a lifetime ago.

 

When he glances over at Steve, the besotted look is almost enough for him to regret everything.

 

 _You don’t regret a damn thing_ , Steve sends, keeping his eyes on the road but grinning wildly.

 

_Shut up, punk._

 

“Wanna go camping?”

 

“Is that why I can smell marshmallows?”

 

Steve glances over at him for a brief moment, as though trying to decipher whether or not Bucky has read his mind.

 

He laughs. “No, you’re not transferring scents. I have no idea what you were thinking. But marshmallows sound good right about now. Feels like I haven’t eaten in days.”

 

Steve considers this. “They wouldn’t go amiss.”

 

“Hey, do you remember that time in France when we met that really rich fella who let us try his homemade recipe as a thank you for saving his ass? We’d only heard about them in Brooklyn from that Girl Scout. First time we tried ‘em. Marshmallows, though, not the s’mores or whatever they were called. _Only_ time I’ve… well. Anyway, what was her name? Eleanor, maybe? Oh man, I thought that guy was gonna shit his pants when we walked onto his property. Thought we were probably German soldiers, come to murder him and clean him out.”

 

He doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth until he’s said it, and the strength of the memory is a bucket of refreshing, if frozen, water.

 

And the besotted look is back. Great.

 

“Don’t - “

 

“I love you.”

 

Bucky tries, he really tries, to dig up some kind of acceptable comeback, some irritation, or maybe annoyance, but he can’t help himself. He has to turn in order to hide the grin bursting to the surface, pretends to study the landscape as it flows by. Steve’s eyes are on him anyway, always, whether he’s looking or not.

 

They’re still in the middle of nowhere, farms and corn and cows for days, and it occurs to Bucky that he has no idea where Steve’s taking them, or if he even has a destination in mind.

 

Steve answers his unspoken question. “I thought we might head up to Washington.”

 

“What’s in Washington?”

 

“I’ve heard the Cascades are nice this time of year. Sam told me about this little Bavarian village in the mountains, kind of the middle of nowhere. We’ve never really taken a vacation before, and I remember how much you liked traveling through Austria before… well. Before.” He shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. “We could do something else if you want. Just an idea.”

 

In truth, Bucky doesn’t care where they go, as long as they go there together. But he’s not going to say that loud enough for Steve to hear, mentally or otherwise. Steve already thinks he’s a sap. No need to make it worse.

 

***

 

They’d Googled resorts and vacation rentals in the town of Leavenworth, but when Steve goes to the bathroom at a random truck stop in Montana, that idea goes to shit in a moment of compulsive joy (for Steve) and slight panic (for Bucky). He feels the stab of Steve’s emotion all the way from the car, knowing that any sudden decision Steve makes has a fifty-fifty chance of ending in a fight. Maybe sixty-forty; hell, even seventy-thirty if the stick is far enough up Steve’s ass. As it turns out, it doesn’t go to shit because Steve gets them arrested for some poorly-considered anti-bullying campaign, but rather because he exits the building a few minutes later with arms full of camping gear.

 

“By ‘camping,’ I thought you meant that nice little cottage in the woods. Not literally,” Bucky yells by way of greeting.

 

“Well how else are we supposed to roast marshmallows?”

 

“On the back porch grill?”

 

“Bucky,” Steve says exasperatedly, shoving folded chairs and a tent along with about seventy other odds and ends - what the hell do truck stops carry these days? - into the back of their rental car. “That’s not how this works.”

 

“I don’t see why not,” he responds.

 

“I thought you wanted to enjoy the outdoors.”

 

“I do,” Bucky insists as Steve sits back in the driver’s seat and closes the door. “I just like going back to civilization when we’re done.” A memory comes to him, unbidden, five men in a tent the size of his Tower bathroom, crammed together and huddling against the cold December wind. It was only a few months before his fall.

 

He tries to hide the shudder from Steve, but this is the downside of having a soulmate who can sort-of read his mind. It’s fucking hard to keep anything from each other without actively trying to block outgoing (or incoming) thoughts. It’s getting stronger over time, too. Bucky’s a little afraid that they’ll eventually not be able to hide anything.

 

“Hey,” Steve says quietly, setting a hand on his knee and squeezing, gentle like he’d never tossed a vibranium shield a city block and then some. “We can go to a resort in the Bahamas and do nothing but sit by the pool if that’s what you want. Whatever it takes to see you happy, Buck. Goodness knows I’ve hurt you enough lately.”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a drama queen. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Plus it’s gotta be different, right? It’s not winter, there’ll be no dramatic train rides over vast, empty chasms, and most importantly, I won’t have to smell the ass of the guy sleeping practically on top of me.”

 

“Right, but you’re forgetting we sleep together.” There’s a gleam in Steve’s eye even though he’s blushing. “Sometimes on top of each other.”

 

“Look, anything’s better than Dum-Dum’s morning wood, okay? Even your morning farts.”

 

“So smelling _my_ ass is different?”

 

“Well, I’ve helped give you enemas when you were too sick and scrawny to walk down the hall to the bathroom, so yeah, obviously.”

 

“Good.”

 

Bucky squints at Steve the same way he’d squint at a new species of bug: a little fascinated, a little disgusted. “That’s a weird thing to be happy about, Steve.”

 

_I don’t care, as long as you’re with me._

 

It’s gross, both in the saccharine kind of way and the actually disgusting kind, but Bucky finds himself agreeing anyway. He can’t get enough of Steve, morning farts and all. God, how he’d missed him.

  


***

  


Camping, Bucky decides, is great. So is vacation, for that matter. The little Bavarian mountain village doesn’t remind him much of Europe, mostly because his memories consist of a lot of mud, blood, and misery, and this is the exact fucking opposite of that. Okay, maybe the sweet chill of the mountain air sort-of counts, but it’s not the breathtaking wind encountered while, say, catching a train in Austria.

 

Hell, not even that memory can make today worse.

 

He’s unpacking their little impromptu picnic basket, smiling softly at the memory of Steve’s silly “Hey Boo-Boo! Would you like to see my pic-a-nic basket?” when Steve stoops into the tent and asks if he’d like to take a walk.

 

“But we just walked for like an hour to find this spot,” he whines. “C’mon, Steve, I’m on vacation here.”

 

Steve’s response is to stare at him like he’d just walked in and found Bucky shoving Barbies in his ass or something. Or maybe not quite, because he’s pretty sure Steve’s eyebrows are climbing to a different zip code before his very eyes.

 

He tries to scowl, which only causes his face to do some clownish contortions in its effort not to stretch into a grin because, okay, he’s being a bit dramatic.

 

“I’ll say,” Steve mutters, fighting the same grin.

 

“Stop reading my mind, you asshole.”

 

“Stop thinking so loud then. And don’t unpack that food. I found a perfect spot for dinner.”

 

Bucky begrudgingly follows, and then, later, begrudgingly agrees that, if paradise existed, it would be at this exact latitude and longitude. The setting sun casts a net of shadows, bathing the world in a contrast that highlights the texture of each individual pine needle, each low, broad maple leaf surrounding their little clearing. All of Bucky’s senses are heightened; he can almost hear the hummingbird wings as they flit through the shrubbery, performing and dancing just for him.

 

“Guess I don’t warrant a dance, huh?” Steve muses as he finishes dinner preparations. Bucky watches with amusement as one of the paper plates flies away, Steve clumsily flailing after it. Amazing, that the man can throw and catch a vibranium shield thrown by a metal arm, but suffers defeat at the hands of disposable kitchenware.

 

“Hey, I’m the one with the overactive imagination, remember?”

 

“Buck, I remember your attempts at drawing. Imaginative is not something I would use to describe it.”

 

“That’s manual dexterity, you oaf.” He settles in as Steve sets the plate, now forcibly stilled by the weight of several overly-laden sandwiches, in front of Bucky.

 

“That was quality. I meant content.”

 

“Maybe I’ll write a book or something. Show you some real imagination.”

 

Steve’s face lights up like Christmas. “That would be wonderful, Buck. Really.”

 

He rolls his eyes. Yes, he’s going to live life now. Yes, he’s finally healing. Can’t they just eat the food and not ruin the ambiance?

 

Steve just watches him take a bite and smirks. Smartass.

  


***

  


Bucky’d thought he’d had a handle on what they were capable of, how their gifts were going to crystallize, how they’d interact and work together, make them better partners in life and maybe, someday, in the field.

 

Maybe in bed, too, though he’s been studiously trying not to think about that.

 

Then he discovers that he’s never been so wonderfully wrong in his life.

  


***

  


Apropos of nothing, Steve decides they should slow dance. Unilaterally, in fact, as he grabs Bucky from behind in a bear hug and forces him to his feet, then spins him around and keeps him close, swaying in the night breeze. It’s crazy in that random way Steve sometimes has, and romantic as hell for some reason.

 

 _What are you doing_? he sends, quiet and unwilling to disturb the world around them.

 

 _Dinner and dancing, of course_ , Steve responds, leaning down to hook his chin on Bucky’s shoulder.

 

_This your idea of a date? Were you planning this all along?_

 

_Nah. Just wanted to hold you close._

 

Bucky has nothing to say to that, internally or otherwise.

 

After a while, they stop moving. Bucky’s eyes are closed, his forehead leaning against Steve’s, mind quiet. He loses all sense of direction, of place and purpose and everything else except his soulmate and the safety he feels in Steve’s arms. Nothing else exists; nothing else _needs_ to exist. He finally feels the peace he hasn’t known since…

 

Has he ever known peace?

 

_No. Not like this._

 

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, a rumble more like a purr than actual words. “Open your eyes.”

 

He does, and immediately feels a fuzzy sense of panic, but it’s muted, buried in a sea of awe, because the world, man, the _world -_

 

__

 

They’re high, twenty, maybe twenty-five feet in the air, hovering by the power of nothing but wild dreams and the sheer force of true love. Steve’s still got a hold of him, but it feels different than when they were on the ground, and it’s not until his eyes lock on the baby blues of his soulmate that he realizes -

 

And then he _understands -_

 

And then he _remembers._

  


Steve, a swing and a miss, the laughter of the other boys as he’d stumbled to the dugout, the pain of rejection nothing as his head remained high and eyes proud;

 

Steve and his shy smile right after the game, when Bucky had felt bad for the shrimpy kid with more heart than all the Brooklyn Dodgers put together;

 

Steve, another swing and a miss on the playground the next day, fending off some random boy trying to pull the pigtails of little Bernadette Reynolds;

 

Steve, _another_ swing and a miss in the alley behind the hardware store, this time running off the mean kid trying to set fire to Mrs. Remington’s cat;

 

Steve, _another_ shy smile as Bucky’d paid for his dinner at the automat the first evening Sarah had had to work the night shift (and Bucky’s subsequent insistence on teaching Steve to cook some goddamn food, or at least boil cabbage);

 

Steve, drawing everything - his mom and dad, Becca, the baseball game the one time they saved enough money to go, the old ladies at the bingo hall, stray cats, and Bucky in his military uniform;

 

Steve’s brave face when he’d told Bucky his mother had died;

 

Steve’s brave face when he’d watched Bucky leave their apartment to lose his virginity with Dottie Smith, because Bucky would have never disrespected his best friend enough to do that at home;

 

Steve’s brave face when he’d watched Bucky walk away that fateful night in ‘43.

 

All of it, every memory hits him like a lightning bolt, brain lighting up with images and scents and feelings, shit he’s felt since coming back to Steve but hasn’t _remembered_ feeling, emotional muscle memory borne of a longing so deep he’d felt it in his bones.

 

“I died at the bottom of that ravine,” Bucky whispers against Steve’s lips, pulling his slight, fragile body close. “Or this would have been us a long, long time ago.”

 

Steve uses Bucky’s body as leverage to climb him, a little kid on a tree, clearly unused to looking up at his best friend. When he’s even with Bucky’s face, he nods with satisfaction and leans in to kiss him, just a brush of lips that sets fire to Bucky’s blood.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, earnest and serious like always. “If I could take it back and do it again, I’d…”

 

“No,” Bucky says. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. It happened the way it was meant to happen. We have a lifetime together now.”

 

“I’d have died young, I know.”

 

“It was _worth it_ ,” Bucky stresses, needing Steve to understand. “Every second of it, if it got me here with you.”

 

“You’ll never be the same again.”

 

Bucky kisses him again, open-mouthed and breathing the same air. “Neither will you,” he responds quietly. “And is that what you want anyway?”

 

“Is this what _you_ want? Me here, like this?”

 

“What, teeny tiny Steve Rogers? Put him in my shirt pocket, something like that?”

 

Steve bites Bucky’s lip. “That’s not nice.”

 

“Steve, I would take any version of you. _Any_. It’s the heart and soul of you that matters.”

 

“Then you’d better believe me when I say the same.”

 

And then Steve sends him a vision, as real as the night sky, the Milky Way a starry crack surrounded by the blue-black night above them. He sees himself, last night or the night before, lying in a hotel bed, buried under blankets decorated with that generic floral pattern Steve seems to hate so much. His mouth is open, drool coating and cooling on his cheek, peaceful and safe, and then -

 

Desire floods him, Steve’s desire, so ripe and raw he gasps just in time for Steve to claim his mouth in a desperate kiss. Bucky pulls away for half a second, long enough to tilt his head to the side so he can give as good as he gets. He doesn’t remember kissing being this intense, enough that they have to pull away just to breathe after locking lips for longer than Bucky’d thought two people could go at it. He figures it’s not just desire drawing them together, it’s need - the need to revel in the fact that they’re here, now, alive and whole and in love.

 

“Clothes,” Steve pants. “Off. Now.”

 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Bucky murmurs, pulling Steve off of him like a burr long enough to remove his shirt. He watches it flutter to the ground, landing in a heap right on top of the basket.

 

Steve’s staring at him, tracing the scars around the metal arm with his eyes, wanting to touch but still not sure if he’s allowed to. Bucky hasn’t let him do that yet, but it hadn’t been because of the arm itself. It was the intimacy, the depth of this moment that’s upon them now. He hadn’t wanted to ruin it by pushing too fast.

 

Steve’s eyes are glazed over and his desire is palpable. Bucky is all he sees now, not just his body but the core of him, everything he’d ever been, good and bad. And being exposed like this is not frightening, not like he’d thought it might be. It’s being _known,_ like his very essence belongs to Steve Rogers. Why had they waited so long to do this?

 

“You, too,” he says, quiet and overwhelmed. “Let me see you.”

 

Steve nods and takes off his clothes, almost thoughtfully. Bucky’s seen him naked before - he hadn’t been kidding about the enema thing, and they’d practically lived on top of each other for years anyway - but this is different. He’s never seen Steve aroused, wanting, _needy_ , and it damn near takes his breath away. The rest of his clothes float to the ground as well, and soon enough, they’re holding each other in mid-air, naked and trembling.

 

Steve, tiny and delicate but in charge, always, makes a circle with Bucky’s hand and grasps their dicks. Bucky’s fingers carefully tug Steve’s foreskin down, making him throw his head back and bite his lip; with sudden understanding, Bucky realizes that Steve is a virgin, that nobody has ever touched him like this. He takes over the rhythm of their hands, showing Steve how he likes to be touched, letting Steve show him the same. With his other hand, he grabs Steve by the neck and forces him to meet his eyes.

 

“Don’t look away,” he breathes, mesmerized, watching Steve’s pupils swallow the blue as he nods in slow motion.

 

He tries to make it last, slowing down when it becomes nearly overwhelming, bringing them both back from the brink several times, but before long, Steve’s nearly sobbing and Bucky’s about to shatter from within. The night listens to their gasps of pleasure and Steve’s blissful cry as he lets go, not once looking away from his soulmate. Bucky’s own orgasm hits seconds after Steve’s, the pleasure echoing endlessly, building upon itself like a wave until all that’s left is blinding white light.

  


***

  


When he returns to reality, Bucky’s lying on the ground, grass cool against his naked back. Steve, normal-sized now, bends over the remains of their meal, packing everything away. The sky is dark, fully night, but the moon and stars wash Steve’s naked skin in their light. Dew drops cling to his back, falling in little rivulets. Bucky watches one as it descends down Steve’s flank, the ridge of his hip, the sweet curve of his buttocks. He’s never seen anything so beautiful, so downright _ethereal_ , in his entire life.

 

Steve finishes packing their things and straightens up, but doesn’t turn.

 

“Like what you see?” he asks wryly.

 

“So what if I do?” Bucky responds with a challenging tone.

 

“I can stand here all night if you like.”

 

Bucky snorts. “Rather have you in bed with me.”

 

“If by ‘bed,’ you mean ‘cold, hard ground,’ I agree. Strongly, in fact.” He finally turns around and looks at Bucky, eyes amused in the evening light. It’s unfair how drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous he is.

 

Then Steve’s words hit him, and he groans, throwing himself backward theatrically. “But we had the magical evening outdoors. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

“I also wanted the legitimate camping experience.”

 

“Didn’t we have enough of that in Europe?”

 

“Hey, you agreed.”

 

Bucky sighs in defeat. “Fine. But when we see the Grand Canyon, we’re staying in a hotel. With a hot tub and room service.” And ooh, now _there’s_ an idea - “Maybe we can stop in Vegas and add bikini-clad maids to that list.”

 

Steve looks scandalized, enough that Bucky’s pretty sure he’s actually blushing. “We are not objectifying women like that, James Buchanan Barnes.”

 

Unable to help himself, Bucky bursts out laughing. “You are so ridiculous, Rogers. Christ. Never change.”

 

“I know, alright? New century. I’m ancient. Let’s go back to the tent.”

 

Bucky reaches out and touches his cheek, feeling the blush still burning underneath Steve’s skin. He kisses it, then leans his forehead against Steve’s temple and breathes him in. “I mean it. Never change.”

 

The ground is indeed hard, even though the spot they’d chosen had sported a bed of grass that does _not_ work as advertised. It’s cold, too, but that’s all right. Bucky’s got a human furnace to keep him warm. This is how Steve must’ve felt all those years ago when Bucky would hold onto him in the winter - small, soft, and safe. He remembers it all now, every precious moment a human mind can retain. He falls asleep with a smile on his face, wrapped up in the warmth of everything he’d ever wanted.

 

It’s not until they’ve left the campsite and are headed south that Bucky realizes. “Aww, we forgot to roast marshmallows!”

 

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. “You’ll live, princess.”

  


***

 

“Cap, you’ve got a - yeah, that,” Tony says over the noise of his repulsors.

 

Steve throws the shield and knocks down three separate Doombots before Bucky pulls it to him, then quickly flings it back in Steve’s direction. Bucky pulls out his pistol and shoots a ‘bot between the eyes before it can grab Steve from behind. The dance takes no more than a few seconds, and immediately starts all over again.

 

Sam whistles as he flies overhead, supposedly fighting their enemies but apparently acting like some sort of combat voyeur instead. “That is some teamwork you guys got goin’ on. Not bad for your first time, Barnes.”

 

“Wilson, for the last time, I told you I’m not new to this. You do remember World War II and the following seventy years of murder, right?”

 

Steve snorts unattractively over the comm as he gestures Bucky up the fire escape of a nearby building, mouthing _I’ll be right behind you_ to his soulmate. It doesn’t take Bucky long to get into position; they’re in New York, but thankfully not Manhattan. The apartment buildings here are child-sized in comparison to the skyscrapers they’re occasionally forced to fight in or on or around.

 

Steve makes it up the stairs a few minutes behind him and surveys the ‘battlefield,’ a small park with a single baseball diamond, a few swings and sandboxes, and one concrete tennis court. As missions go, this one is fairly standard, a good one to get Bucky back into the swing of things.

 

Noting that there are only a few Doombots left, Bucky rises from his position at the rooftop’s edge and nods, smiling at the goofy grin Steve’s wearing.

 

“Save ‘em for us, boys,” he tells the other Avengers. Clint, on an adjacent building, lowers his bow, gesturing for Katie to do the same, and he notices Natasha cock her head even as she puts away her Widow’s Bite.

 

The moment drags long between them; this is what they’ve practiced for in secret, and Bucky hopes to all that is good in the universe that he doesn’t mess this one up. It’s a high enough fall to survive, but still. He’d rather not put that assessment to the test if he can help it.

 

“On three,” Steve whispers, grabbing his hand.

 

“One,” Bucky says with a grin on his face and more love in his heart than he knows what to do with. It’s been months since their little road trip, but the feeling of closeness hasn’t diminished - has, if anything, grown.

 

“Two,” Steve says, eyes expressing the reflection of Bucky’s thoughts, emotions flowing into Bucky as though they were his own.

 

“Three,” they say together, and jump.

 

“What the _fuck_ ? You idiots can _fly?!”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to the Cap RBB team. Some of you may not realize how insanely large this thing is, and how much work goes into keeping it organized, and they are incredible.
> 
> And thanks to you, dear reader, for taking the time to read my story. <3


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